


Tar Water

by Festively_Plump



Category: South Park
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-06-08 18:19:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15249165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Festively_Plump/pseuds/Festively_Plump
Summary: Kyle sometimes wanders into the forest to reminisce on the past, on his dead friends, on old fights, on the eyes of the forest and the pond.Kyle is numb to it all.





	Tar Water

**Author's Note:**

> A little fic I stitched together.  
> Criticism welcome as I don't know what I'm doing.   
> Slightly OOC.

Kyle pushed open the window of his bedroom. The cold air bit him fiercely, slapping against his face and whipping his red curls back. Kyle was used to this harsh and unforgiving cold, however. He had known this his whole life. The snapping air with cold teeth and winding jaw, the omnipresent snow, too white to look at, and the ever grey sky that would never stop coughing up snow and hail. The weatherman always called for extra hats and coats, boots and socks, but it never really was enough to keep the cold at bay.

He pulled his thin body out of the window to look around. A blanket of black covered everything, and Kyle could only make out the shine of drainpipe next to him. He pulled back into the room, ice white crystals melting into fire red hair, and turned around. His room was just as dark, and Kyle walked slowly back to his desk. Silently, he pushed at the papers and pencils, the many years of extreme academic achievement laying unused. An IQ test, putting him quite a bit above his many peers, was given to him earlier that day by his father.   
"For once, I'm proud of you." His father had said, brown eyes dull with years of constant life.

Kyle had taken the test weeks ago, upon his mother's unceasing requests. True to his nature, he had scored well and with ease. For a moment he was proud of himself, but it faded quickly.   
He didn't know why.

Kyle grabbed the heavy flashlight from the back of the drawer, not daring to flick it on quite yet. Yes, he knew the woods well, better than he knew himself, but at night the creatures roamed and stalked and no masked hero would save him. Not anymore. That masked hero had left, tired of the life he lived. No one knew really where he went, but one day he showed up at Kyle's window, grinning and talking about how he was finally doing it, finally leaving. Something was in his blue eyes that was brighter than Kyle had ever seen. Something made boy's voice strain with excitement. He really believed he was going to escape, to make it out.

Of course, he didn't make it far. No one does, not here. Even Kyle knows that. He doesn't even bother to think of a better life, of a different place other than the tall men-like mountains. Other than the black tar pond, with its kelp like pale hands, grasping and pulling, dull and green. Other than the hick people, all laced with cocaine and meth, broken dreams and shattered hearts, doomed to die and be forgotten.   
No, Kenny did not make it far at all. He was found a good three and a half miles out of town, lying in a ditch, blue eyes open, a soft look of shock plastered permanently to his face. A hit and run, they whispered.   
No one dare say it aloud. They simply couldn't believe it, and saying it so loudly would cement the truth into their minds: Kenny was dead.   
And this time he wasn't coming back.

The funeral was quiet, save the occasional sob from a grief-stricken mother. Kyle was disgusted with his lack of sadness. While Stan held a hand over his dark blue eyes, an attempt to prevent tar water from spilling down porcelain cheeks, Kyle stared blankly at the grey, cloudy sky, that seemed to mock Kenny McCormick and every being who had attended the final burial of the immortal boy.

Kyle pulled himself out the window, careful to not make a noise. After nights of sneaking out like this, Kyle felt he had mastered it. He slipped a leg out, placing it lightly on the edge of the window below him. Then the other foot, and he leaned back, flashlight clamped between two rows of near-perfect teeth. His imperfect teeth irked him. Kyle was a person who needed perfection. Excellence.   
Kyle would have had perfect teeth if not for January 17th, the day Cartman, resident Nazi and fat-kid, had thrown one too many insults into Kyles pale face, and Kyle had snapped. Fist met chubby nose and the brawl began. Kicking, biting, punching, the noise of rage and hatred echoed across the playground. Eventually, after punches were thrown and blood was spattered, Cartman had Kyle pinned. He lifted a pudgy fist, a grin plastered onto his Hawaiin-roll face, and, with a quick movement, hit Kyle so hard he knocked one of Kyle's teeth out. Blood stained the snow, but Kyle hardly noticed. Rage clouded his vision, a curtain hiding the cast of onlookers, set solely on the main star. He pushed sharply up with his knees and took to kicking his enemy in the sweet spot. Before Kyle could keep the boy from ever having children, a teacher ran up and pulled Kyle away. When Kyle's family found out they were livid, and that is putting it lightly. Kyle was grounded for over a month.

That's when he started to learn how to sneak out.

Boot-clad feet sunk into snow upon impact. A redhaired head turned to look in the nearby window. No one was in the living room, blackness swam in the empty space. He began the walk, leaving deep footprints. Hopefully, the incoming snowfall would cover his tracks. Carefully he hopped the fence and wound his way into the woods. After a bit, he flicked on the flashlight. Trees illuminated, shadows scurried away. Kyle narrowed dull eyes and kept on. Dodging trees, careful to leave light footprints, though it was unlikely anyone would be in that area before the next snowfall, Kyle made his way through the forest of shadows. What a frightful place this used to be, he mused. He remembered sneaking into the treehouse with Stan and Kenny and sometimes even Cartman to flip through comic books and tell ghost stories. Kenny always told the scariest stories, almost like he had witnessed them first hand. He knew what was scary, what would keep sleep from caressing weary heads, and he wielded this weapon skillfully. It was true, no one was quite as good of a storyteller than Kenny.

Kyle stepped over half collapsed barbed wire, past the now rusted “no trespassing” sign, thinking unconsciously about the stories Kenny told. One, Kyle’s personal favorite as it scared Cartman go the point of tears, was about kids lost in the woods. It told how children would be dropped off by parents at the edge of a forest (similar to the one they were in) and left to wander until death. Those, the wanderers that died of exposure, were the lucky ones, Kenny had told. The not so lucky children were picked up by the man of the woods. The man of the woods was hunched, almost friendly looking at first glance, but if you looked closer you’d see the sharp teeth, glistening eyes, and blood red stained fingers. By then, of course, it would be too late. He would grab the screaming, yelling children and throw them in his big bonfire to cook them. Kenny warned to never go near a light in the forest, or you, too, would be devoured.

Kyle, of course, had long dismissed this childhood rule, and would always be looking for the small light of his friend's flashlights. Which is what he scanned the forest for, now. They had agreed to meet at Stark's near Kenny's makeshift grave, but Kyle wondered if Stan even remembered, if Cartman even cared. Stan had been distant lately. Depression was beginning to eat at him, lick away every bit of happiness in the crevices of his grey brain. It clawed at his wrists and pushed his blue eyes under deep, tar water. He didn't smile so much anymore. Kyle would be worried, but he, too, was distant. He couldn't bear being around Stan anymore. His dark thoughts and tar-water eyes annoyed Kyle, who had no patience for those kinds of things. Eventually, he stopped his everyday visits with Stan, and soon found himself rarely talking to his childhood friend. Someone he had valued so high had become the last on his list, and Kyle did not and would never notice. Stan did, though, and it gnawed at him constantly. He would have done anything to get Kyle to pay attention to him again, to make everything like it used to be, but Kyle never saw the desperate attempts. Kyle's head was filled with unanswered thoughts and bubbling questions. Kyle was distracted and distant, too, and the duo was doomed to drift away like boats lost at sea.

Kyle kept on through the forest, flashlight bobbing with each step. The trees watched as Kyle threaded his way along the memorized path. The forest seemed to breathe and grow each day. Every time Kyle’s boot-clad feet made steps through the powder snow, something was different, off, strange.

But now it didn’t faze him. Everything was strange there, nothing could or would make sense, and that was the way the people liked it.

They had no expectations of the world, just that the forest would keep breathing, the snow would keep falling, and that Stark’s Pond would never freeze, no matter the cold.

Starks water was always a weird cold that could ice the bones of even the hardiest Eskimo.

South Parkers, however, could never be chilled by the water.

“It’s perfect!” They’d yell as they jumped into the tar-black water. “It’s perfect!” They’d scream, heads bobbing above the surface, feet brushing the claws of kelp that sat, waiting, at the bottom of the pond.

That kelp pond was where Kyle was making his way now.

His friends had all promised to be there, but Kyle was fairly certain none would be there. Cartman and he hated each other, Kenny was dead, and Stan and he didn’t talk anymore.

So Kyle was alone, only the shadows and the trees to accompany him.

When the redhead arrived at the pond, it was still unfrozen. Eyes peeked from the depths, light and uncaring, before slipping back into the wet tar water.

Frogs or fish, Kyle thought, but he knew they weren’t.

He edged the patch of snow to a small picnic bench and sat down. Carved into the wood were five sets of names.

Kyle Broflovski

Eric Cartman (which was larger than any other signature)

Kenny McCormick

Stan Marsh

Butters Stotch (and a tiny heart)

 

Kyle licked snow dried lips.

Butters.

Oh, Butters.

 

Kyle would be the first to admit, he didn’t care much for Butters, and it was known Butters didn’t like him much, either, but Kyle admitted it.

The boy didn’t deserve to die like that.

  
Kyle and Butters didn’t often talk to each other. Kyle doing the blonde boy to be too sweet, too forgiving, too kind. He knew, in a place like this, you can’t last like that. You either died happy or lived long enough to become numb.

But Butters was never happy, though it was hard to notice.

Kenny knew, but Kenny knew everything. He had a way with people, a way to get anything out of them, and he had coaxed every muddy, tar water secret from the tiny blonde boy he could muster.

Now, Kyle was a quite nosey kid, taking after his mother in wanting to know what the happenings were, but he had no interest in Butters, and never asked to hear the tar-black secrets Butters kept buried. Kenny wouldn’t have told him, anyway.

Though Kyle didn’t know all of Butters’ secrets, he knew one: Butters was abused.

Yes, it was true, everyone knew that. No one could avoid seeing the spectacular bruises littering his crinkled body, or miss the shrill yells and shrieks of his overreactive parents. They all knew about his father's belt and his mothers attempt on his life, but, as this was their town, they just didn’t care.

A pat on the back and a “man up, dude” we’re the only condolences teenage boys could give.

When the day came, Butters was still a child, enjoying peanut butter crackers he had made himself.

A yell, a crash, and a thud, a chorus of confusion then anger then pain.

Butters didn’t have time to register what was happening then, just pull away a gasp of air before crashing to the ground.

Blood and glass covered the floor, a father’s anger clouding any sense of empathy.

No, Butters could not have lived, even if he had gone to the hospital immediately. The poor boy was doomed to die by his father's drunken hand, no one could stop the untimely death of a blonde haired boy.

The town was shaken, but not for long. Soon, people forgot about Butters. His father moved away, his mother died of grief, buried in the backyard of Kenny’s house because no one else would bother except him.

Kenny let weeds grow on the grave, mostly out of spite, but sometimes he laid a flower on the mound of dirt.

He was too caring, even for the demons of his town. It was a shame the last piece of empathy in the town, the only bit of light in a dark world, had died so soon and so grimly. What a way to go, Kyle mused. What did it even feel like to be hit by a car? to feel the crunch of bones, to hear the splatter of blood, the see yourself so broken, bruised, and battered. Kyle crossed his legs and frowned. He wished Kenny was still alive so he could tell him.

The hard steps of feet pulled Kyle from his thoughts, and his eyes darted up, straight into the grinning face of Eric Cartman.

“You’re here.” Kyle pulled his head up.

“Moms out with her boyfriend, so I thought I might as well grace you with my presence,” Cartman replied cheerily. Behind the smile, Kyle knew, he, too, was numb. His mother, a frequent sex worker, was always off with who knows who, partying it up who knows where, snorting who knows what. It hurt Cartman more than he would ever admit.

“Goody.” Kyle grinned a false smile.

Cartman sat on the edge of the picnic table, arms holding up chubby yet strong jaw.

Kyle would never admit it, but Cartman had certainly matured, if not in personality, certainly in looks. Beautiful brown eyes matched silk brown hair. Tan skin and pink lips, perfect white teeth.

Kyle looked away, back to the pond, pushing away any thought of Cartman, his worst enemy, the one who delighted in his suffering, being hot.

Kyle and Cartman were not friends. Being together, or even near each other, would only end in a flurry of fists, screams, insults, or all three.   
Those boys didn't realize it, but they were the closest of anyone in the town. they knew everything about each other, but never realized it, and, as they got older, the would stay together. They would never be friends, possibly lovers, always enemies. Always together. Always bickering and fighting, but never leaving one another. They would never admit it, but they needed each other.   
Cartman lost all interest if Kyle wasn't involved, and Kyle found himself bored with no enemy to fight and rally against. They never registered this though. Maybe, in the back of their minds, the thought arose, but it was squashed and forgotten.

Soon, Snow began to cascade down, draping itself gently over the boys. “It’s snowing,” Kyle said dumbly. He didn’t know what to say. Cartman and he didn’t talk much unless it was the language of anger.

Cartman cocked an eyebrow. “It is.”

Kyle pushed back a red curl and locked eyes with Cartman. Cartman just grinned.

“Wanna see something?”

Kyles knit his eyebrows together. Going into the woods with your worst enemy was not Kyle's idea of a good time, but he so desperately needed something to stimulate him, to wake him up, he agreed.

Yeah, it was probably a stupid idea, but Kyle didn’t care. He needed a distraction. Kenny's death was still a heavy, black cloud.

Cartman's grin somehow widened. “Great, Jewboy. We’re going to see something really fun.” He pushed up and began to walk off.

Kyle paused for a moment. If he wanted to go back, now was the time, but he curiosity had sunken its pointy teeth into his neck. He couldn’t stop from following the chubby brunette into the forest.

 

They walked in silence, Snow still falling down. They ignored the cold.

After ten minutes of walking, Kyle couldn’t stay quiet. “Where are we going, fatass?”

Cartman didn’t reply.

Kyle didn’t press.

Bootclad feet made footprints in the snow, but new powder soon covered it up. Kyle felt as if they were walking in circles. He couldn’t see where they had been. He couldn’t see where they were going. All he saw was Cartman and his large, red coat.

And trees.

So many trees.

 

Stan would sometimes joke how the trees were watching them, waiting for the right moment to snatch you away. When no one else was looking, the trees knew, and they took you.

When the children disappeared those few years ago, Stan said it was the trees taking them, and bringing them to the man of the forest. The bonfire man.

He talked on, and Kyle couldn’t tell if these thoughts were jokes, or if Stan was serious about the trees and the man of the forest.

Kyle didn’t care much, though, and would simply stare ahead and nod while Stan whispered about the trees.

He said that if you were too loud, the trees would hear you, and take you.

Though Kyle was a man of logic, he was raised by fear and superstition.

In this town, nothing was normal.

Every person hid something, every rock and blade of grass covered something no one else knew. Nothing was ever safe, you could never know if someone was lying or telling the truth.

But, Kyle would think, that was how the town worked.

An alternate dimension, a place where no laws ruled, a place of friendly faces and gritty truths. A place no one should call home.

So, with some trepidation, Kyle would always keep an eye on the trees. Maybe Stan was right. Maybe the trees all looked the same to lure you in, a false sense of security. Maybe the trees were watching Kyle and Cartman drudge through the snow, waiting until they were lost, to strike.   
  
Or maybe Kyle was paranoid.

 

When Kyles thoughts came to a close, so did the hard steps of his nemesis. Cartman was standing before a pile of snow, a hand outstretched, motioning just slightly beyond it, where a crumpled body lay, so pale it blended with the snow.   
"Look what I found, Kyle."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Please, how should I continue this? I don't have a plot idea and I need one. Do help me! <3


End file.
